Time Cannot Erase
by AngelickFruitcake
Summary: During the war, Harry and Draco decided to go their separate ways. The end of the war and its aftermath take the two in completely different directions. Now, five years later, an unexpected reunion forces the two to come to terms with a past they've tried
1. Default Chapter

A/N: This is a collaboration between Karen Ilus and Miaka (AngelicFruitcake). Written in alternating chapters, Karen writes from Draco's perspective and Miaka writes from Harry's perspective. All of Draco's dialogue and mannerisms are decided by Karen and Harry's are decided by Miaka, regardless of who wrote the chapter. Thanks to our wonderful beta Orpheus.  
  
Time Cannot Erase  
  
Draco's POV by Karen Ilus  
  
My hold on reality is tentative at best. I'm losing it and I am gradually getting worse. I never really believed that I was fighting a losing battle, but now I realize that that's how it's going to play out for me. My life did end three years ago. What I have now is meagre and meaningless and insignificant. I work and live among Muggles, adapting and pretending to belong. I work for them and I do things the way they do them and sometimes, if I don't think too hard, I can forget the past.  
  
At other times, I'm back at the manor trapped in an endless moment; my mother on the drawing room floor, dead possibly for weeks. I see Lucius and there is no more memory. At times, it goes further but I force it down and think of something else. That doesn't really work because it's playing in the back of my mind; one long continuous loop. Occasionally I wonder if a quick Obliviate spell would be so bad after all. A breach of my own rules but at least I would gain a loss of identity. I'm not sure what stops me. I never intentionally seek out the past but it seems that everything I come in contact with triggers some distant memory, usually of the worse kind but sometimes it's happy.  
  
Most of the time it's fragments of both. a fleeting touch an icy look a warm smile whispered conversations Honestly, I don't know what's worse. There are times I can't separate memories from reality. I've lost focus. It's already been a long day. I washed the front counter numerous times. Lunchtime is approaching and it's getting busy. The diner rarely fills, but there are enough customers to keep things running. I see a lot of faces. Usually it's a mix of regulars and Muggles from out of town, who stop by on their way to somewhere else. I pay attention. I never know when the past will catch up to me. Today it finally does, but it's certainly not who I expected. Out of the blue, he walks in. It's almost anticlimactic how simply and quietly he re-enters my life. At lunchtime, among Muggles, in a foreign country as far away from my past and my upbringing as possible. There he is, head bowed and inconspicuous.  
  
Harry's POV by Miaka  
  
Another day. Another month. Another country. Scenery flies by the taxicab window and blurs together at a dizzying rate. What country am I in again? The driver's talking. Small talk, inane conversation about the weather or local tourist traps or some other mind-numbing topic. He doesn't even seem to notice that I have yet to respond. But he's speaking in English, which narrows down the list of possible countries. I glance at the colourful bills in my wallet. Oh, right. New Zealand.   
  
What the fuck am I doing in New Zealand?   
  
Escaping, of course, but I don't like to admit that to myself. And I'm not talking about some two-week escape to Paradise only to return to the humdrum rat race that is daily life. I'm talking about escaping from all of it. My past. My present. My life.   
  
I don't like to admit it to myself. But sometimes, when the liquor is flowing freely (and last night was definitely one of those nights) I find myself unable to escape those alcohol-induced moments of clarity—when I have to stop lying to myself, and face the me in the mirror, lightning bolt scar and all.   
  
And then I drink some more, until my brain returns to its preferred hazy state, and life gets so much softer and easier to deal with. And the scars, both physical and emotional, don't seem to cut so deep.  
  
I light a cigarette and take a drag as the cabbie yammers on. No, I'm not hungry and no, I don't want something to eat. But I might pretend I am just to get him to drop me off at whatever diner he was recommending so I don't have to listen to his incessant blabbering anymore.   
  
He stops talking long enough to notice me in the rear view mirror. "Hey, buddy. You can't smoke in the cab."   
  
I glare at him, but he won't notice because my eyes are obscured by dark sunglasses. I don't remove them because glaring has never gotten me much of anything, and so I concede and flick the cigarette out the window. Maybe that diner really is a good idea. I say that to the cabbie and he makes a u- turn, pulling around and turning into a small parking lot. A little sign in the diner window says "Yes, we're open!"   
  
I step out of the cab, toss some of those colourful bills at the driver, and thank him for his advice. The diner is small, the blinds are drawn against the afternoon sun shining brightly over the horizon. Breakfast would be good. I haven't eaten since some time yesterday afternoon. Unless you count the limes that came with the margaritas. Hey, limes are food.   
  
A little bell over the door chimes as I push it open. A blond behind the counter looks up from his cleaning duties as I glance around the room. This looks like a place for the locals. I don't fit in well with the locals. But if the locals come here, the food must be good. There's an empty booth towards the back, and I make my way towards it.   
  
A plastic menu is tucked behind the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin dispenser. A quick glance at the menu shows typical diner fare, basic, simple home-cooked food. Simple is good. Eggs, bacon, biscuits. Where is the damned waiter? I remove my sunglasses, wincing at the invasion of light, and look towards the counter. The blond seems to be the only one working. He avoids my gaze. Why is this place so highly recommended again? Certainly not for the stellar service.   
  
He looks at me, and then quickly away again, staring at the counter as if steeling himself to coming over. For a fleeting instant I'm reminded of Wizarding London, and paranoia starts to creep in. I have to fight the urge to pull my bangs over my forehead to cover the scar. But no. This is a Muggle waiter. He has no idea who I am.... 


	2. Chapter One

Time Cannot Erase Chapter 1: by Karen Ilus  
  
(Draco's POV)  
  
I glare at the cheap plastic clock that hangs above the diner entrance convinced that it's been charmed to stop dead. I want to get out of here as soon as possible but it doesn't look like that's going to happen anytime soon. There are only so many hours that I can bear listening to silverware clink against china. I can't stand this shift; there are just too many Muggles to keep an eye on. Twenty total at the moment, eight of them regulars and the rest I've never seen before, which makes me anxious. You never know when there's a wizard among them.  
  
I can't bring myself to even think about the worst-case scenario. Hoping to distract myself from those kinds of thoughts, I grab up the nearest rag and focus on giving the counter another wipe down. Rather quiet despite the growing amount of customers, which I am grateful for. Also, none of them need anything at the moment. Thank Merlin, because there isn't much that can make me go over there just now. Too afraid. Too many unknowns. Much too many...and what if...  
  
Sometimes, memories of events that occurred years ago overwhelm me to the point of confusion and it skews my sense of reality. Suddenly I think I'm back at the bar and a part of me screams for me to snap out of it but.. oh Salazar, I can overhear them. I've never overheard them so clearly before and... it's happening again... She isn't really dead. Something drops, forks are scattering down all over the floor but I ignore them, I need to hear this conversation. I may be able to save my mother. Don't panic. Just sit here and drink your butterbeer, Draco. What am I doing with this rag? They'll wonder at that and find me out. Hurriedly, I stuff the rag inside my robes so they won't notice. I can't hear them over my heartbeat. Shit why do they always whisper this part? It's something about my mother... they think it's.. I have to get back I can't breathe-  
  
Someone slaps the counter in front of me and I jump as I'm pulled back into the here and now. I've got the rag under my shirt. I swallow against the tight knot in my throat and notice that the knocked down fork container is currently spilling plastic forks all over the floor. I hurriedly pick up the container and start collecting the forks when I realize that the Muggle must be there for a reason. I stand back up. The Muggle is eyeing me with some concern and I'm out of breath. He's asking me something but I can't hear anything over the ringing in my ears.  
  
Get a grip!  
  
The door chimes. I look over and the fucking world tilts.  
  
It's him. He looks different but I recognize him immediately. Dressed head to toe in black, he stops just inside the door and takes a look around. I look away only to be ensnared by memory.  
  
In the midst of the war, we had crossed paths once or twice. One time out of necessity. He had stepped out of the shadows, dressed in black Muggle clothing, tense and expectant. I had grim news. By that point I had seriously doubted the Order's chances of winning but when I looked at Harry that day, I saw fierce determination. This was someone who consistently defied the odds. Harry was an unstoppable force of nature and, at the time, I had no doubt that he would be victorious. Harry would win by sheer will.  
  
The memory fades and he is still here. He walks past. My knees want to buckle and I hold on to the counter to keep from falling. It's not possible. He did not just walk in to my diner. How could I go halfway across the globe, leaving the Wizarding world behind, only to meet up with the last person I ever wanted to see again? It's absurd and I feel like laughing at the cosmic humor of it. I don't, only because hysteria never did me any good.  
  
Nevertheless, the spy in me is dispassionately analyzing, memorizing characteristics. He has a prominent limp. The clothes he's wearing are casual yet tight-fitting. He is wearing sunglasses that obscure his eyes entirely. His whole demeanor exudes loner. Ignoring the not so discreet glances of the other customers, he chooses the booth in the farthest corner, which has the best strategic view of the diner. He's got the look of someone that has seen too much.  
  
Half-forgotten feelings for him (it's what I like to believe) bombard me, leaving me quite numb. Despite this, the thought that reigns foremost is that he's beautiful. I'm struck by how much his presence still affects me. It's infuriating and the longer I look at him the more furious I get.  
  
I look away and busy myself with scrubbing the grime off the grill. This is surreal. I'm scrubbing a grill and Harry Potter is seated in my diner inspecting the menu. Why would he come to a place like this? Though if there were one good thing about his sudden appearance it's that it verifies that the war is over and that the Order won, otherwise Harry would not have left Britain. If Voldemort had prevailed, the Muggle world would've been irrevocably affected, even here in this remote little nowhere town.  
  
I remember the occasions when the war had spilled out into the Muggle world. Where the scale of senseless death that followed was incomprehensible. Row upon row of tidy Muggle homes awash with the eerie green of the hovering dark mark. Sometimes I arrived in time to witness the grief of those that survived. Other times I arrived where all that was left was the stillness of the deceased and utter silence. If it were a Wizarding community, many of those slaughtered became ghosts, neither here nor there yet with enough presence that neither the quiet nor the stillness was ever complete. Muggles, however, never became ghosts and even paintings of them were inanimate. It made the massacres so much worse. The heavy sense of wrongdoing and injustice hung thick in the air. To view the effects of such events was to succumb to it; my reasons for fighting had multiplied.  
  
"Excuse me."  
  
I jump, accidentally hitting the straw dispenser beside me. It topples over and straws spill all over the fork-ridden floor. For fuck's sake. I stare at it blankly for a moment. I look up, fervently hoping that he hadn't noticed, when I'm startled by the proximity of an older man's broad weatherworn face. Oh. Right. The Muggle. He's glaring at me at this point. Right then, I'll take his order. I won't think about Harry because he no longer means anything to me. He betrayed my trust and five years has not dulled the hurt. It can't happen again, especially not now. I'm too fucked up to deal with anything from my past. I won't do well with him around. Methodically, I fix the Muggle's coffee and cut a slice of cheesecake for him. One way to ensure that Harry will leave me alone is to make it clear to him that he's not welcome. That he is a chapter in my life that I'll never want to return to.  
  
I'm done with the Muggle and it's time to take his order. I take a deep breath and try to compose myself.  
  
As I approach, his presence becomes more and more real. It's not just my imagination. I'm not having one of my bad days. Merlin, he is really here. I feel my hands shaking.  
  
I manage a fairly disinterested tone. "Ready to order?"  
  
Harry doesn't bother to look up, just proceeds to plow through his order. Same hair, same voice, same impatience, worse tact.  
  
"Yes, now that you're finally here. I'd like coffee. Black. No sugar. Eggs, bacon and a biscuit."  
  
He has taken off his sunglasses by now and when he looks up our eyes meet. He looks stunned. I wonder what exactly it is that he sees. Who I once was or the insignificant man I am now.  
  
"Anything else?" I ask dully.  
  
He recovers well and sits back to fix me with the smarmiest of expressions. Body at ease and an arm casually draped over the back of the booth, Harry couldn't have looked more relaxed. I hate him so much.  
  
"Well, if it isn't Draco Malfoy." He smirks. I hate him. I hate him.  
  
"Not that it's any business of yours."  
  
He shrugs, nonchalant. "Was merely an observation. So what would a Malfoy be doing in a place like this?"  
  
Hardly a fair question. I am as much a Malfoy as he is a blond.  
  
"I work here," I reply "Would that be all then?"  
  
He is completely unmoved by my brush off which irks me much more than it should. He gestures around the diner and stares at me again. He looks so at ease, and I'd buy it if his gaze weren't fixed on me so intensely.  
  
"So, this is what a Malfoy does after he disappears into thin air without letting any of his friends or loved ones know."  
  
His question sounds more like a statement of fact. I'm angered by the implications of it, by the accusation. In the end we were nothing to each other, not even enemies. He's no right to ask me anything at all. My hands want to ball into fists but I force myself to remain at ease. I don't want the arsehole to think that he can still get to me.  
  
"Since you are neither friend nor loved one, it's none of your concern. I'll get your order."  
  
I walk away before he has a chance to respond. Time has only worsened him. He needs to go back to wherever he came from as quickly as possible. I reheat a biscuit and fry the bacon and eggs. The faster I get this over with the faster he's out of my life. Hopefully, for good.  
  
When I return, I avoid any eye contact with him and instead focus on placing his order in front of him. I can feel his eyes on me which is unnerving, but I'm determined not to give him the time of day.  
  
"You know, the service here really leaves something to be desired," he says.  
  
The fucking arsehole, did anyone ask him for his opinion? He's trying to get me riled.  
  
"I'll pass the message along to management. Enjoy your meal." I speak pleasantly enough and start to move away. Suddenly he grabs my wrist and I'm reminded of my father's harsh grip. It's Lucius; he's back and she's dead, lying in front of us. It can't happen again. I won't allow it. I wrench my arm away.  
  
"Don't touch me!"  
  
But all I see is Harry and a fleeting look of hurt. I must have yelled because the diner has gone silent and everyone is looking at us. My ears burn. Harry shrugs and looks away. I stand there unable to move. I watch him take a drag of his cigarette. He smokes?  
  
"Fine, whatever. Who would have thought? Draco Malfoy, a servant to Muggles."  
  
If he thinks that is going to hurt me, he is sadly mistaken. I'm very much aware of my situation and I've accepted what's become of me. I want it this way, even if I fucking hate it.  
  
"It doesn't matter because I'm not Draco Malfoy anymore."  
  
I leave him with that and I attend to other customers. I try not to think about what has just happened but it's rather difficult considering that the Muggles keep asking me if I'm all right. I'm fine.  
  
Time passes; it's almost the end of my shift. I've had time to compose myself and I return to Harry's table.  
  
"Your bill."  
  
He looks at me blandly. "You think I could get a refill?"  
  
Fuck you, Potter.  
  
"Certainly." I gather his plates, forcing myself not to smash them over his head, and return with the coffeepot. What does he think he is playing at?  
  
Harry smiles at me. "Thanks."  
  
"No problem."  
  
"Oh and can I get some cream and sugar?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Fucktard. We can both play this game. I hand him the cream and sugar and smile at him, saccharine sweet.  
  
"Would that be all?" I ask.  
  
"Yes, thank you."  
  
"My pleasure."  
  
I leave in a hurry. Get out of my diner, Potter. Instead he spends some time, sipping the coffee and leaving the cream and sugar untouched. Of course. He remains at ease, in control. I still hate him. I busy myself behind the counter and do my best to ignore him.  
  
Finally, he stands up and leaves.  
  
Instant relief followed shortly by guilt. I sigh and run my hands through my hair. Eventually I start to feel terrible. I didn't handle this run-in with my past very well. My apologies, Harry. Just keep moving forward and leave me behind. I never deserved you. I work until the end of my shift. 


	3. Chapter Two

Time Cannot Erase Chapter Two – By Miaka  
  
(Harry's POV)  
  
The air feels hot against my skin as I push open the door of the diner to leave, and I know it's because my face is flushed. I quickly replace my sunglasses, more to hide any lingering tears than to block out the light. I swallow, and it's difficult, as if Draco's hands are wrapped around my throat, cutting off the air, rather than just his cold words. Leaning against the railing, I fumble with a cigarette and a match, desperately trying to light it with shaking hands. Finally the damned thing lights and I quickly inhale, drawing the various toxins into my lungs without a second thought. It does little to calm my nerves. No, tonight I'm going to need something much stronger.  
  
I glance over my shoulder at the diner's door and I see him. I can't understand why my mouth hurts until I realize I'm biting hard on my lip. He doesn't see me. He's focused on some Muggle. I curse myself for not remembering to call a cab. Well, I'm not going back in there now.  
  
He brushes his bangs out of his eyes, and I remember the feel of those silken strands against my fingertips. The smile that would play on his lips as I looked into his eyes. The feel of his skin against mine, his lips on my lips, his lips against my skin, and.... Damn it, I've got to stop this. It's in the past. I am nothing to him, and he is nothing to me.  
  
Three years. For three years I wondered what happened to him. Was he still alive, did he still think of me, did he ever miss me? Now I have the answers and the pain stings worse than I ever feared. I want to hate him; hate him for hurting me, hate him for making me feel like this. But I can't bring myself to do it. I know I hurt him, too. I am as much responsible for this situation as he is.  
  
Fuck him.  
  
Neither friend nor loved one....  
  
Cold, calculated words. Ever the Malfoy. He can pretend he isn't all he wants, but some things never change. Fuck him. I grind my cigarette out on the railing and make my way around to the back of the building. I never particularly cared for Apparating, despite its convenience, but even splinching seems preferable to stepping foot back in that diner.  
  
I round the corner, back where the dumpsters are, and, wrinkling my nose from the smell of grease and rotting food, I close my eyes and picture my little motel room. Careful to picture every detail, I see the double bed – smack in the center of the room. The TV on the entertainment-center across from the bed with its FREE CABLE and scrambled porn. The nightstand in the corner, bolted down like the TV to keep the more undesirably tenants from accidentally going home with them. I open my eyes and I am there. Yes, it's a shitty little room in a shitty little motel, but it's home. At least for the moment. I could afford much better, but why bother? I hardly spend any time here and when I do, I'm usually too drunk to care.  
  
I cross the room to the little counter in the bathroom and retrieve a small glass and the bottle of gin that I'd left there a couple of nights ago. Collapsing onto the bed, I quickly down the evening's first glass.  
  
Time passes. The bottle grows lighter and the gin easier to swallow, and just as I had predicted, the memories of Draco's cold attitude begin to become hazy. I don't feel like sitting here all alone anymore. I want to go out. I want to have fun. I grab the room key from the nightstand, dial up the cab company (who must've come to expect this nightly call by now) and step outside to wait.  
  
I have the cab take me to Gillian's, a cute little car and billiard's hall I discovered a couple of weeks ago. I can hear loud music before I even step out of the cab. Probably some crappy local band that no one cares about. I flash my ID as I walk through the doors, but it's really unnecessary. The bouncers know me by now.  
  
Heat, smoke and loud music. I love this place. The band is indeed crappy, and most definitely local, but the singer's kinda cute and I really like what she's doing with the microphone. I make my way to the bar and I don't even have to order. The bartender's already fixing my drink.  
  
I thank him and allow my gaze to return to the girl on the stage. She's dancing, and I'm mesmerized by the sway of her hips as she holds out her hands to the drunken audience, and then runs them through her long blond hair.  
  
Three drinks later, the band finishes their set. The singer thanks the audience and the male members of the band wave briefly before skulking into the shadows. I move to the side of the stage so I can catch the girl on her way to the back.  
  
"Hi there," I say, and she turns to face me, a smile playing on her lips. "Can I buy you a drink?"  
  
"Sure." She smiles, licking her lips flirtatiously. I smile, too. We both know how this is going to play out.  
  
Three drinks later and I have to compensate not only for my limp but for a slight stagger as I lead the girl to the men's bathroom. Some guys whistle as we enter and I manage a small smile as I fight the blush creeping into my cheeks. The girl doesn't seem to mind.  
  
The next thing I know, I'm leaning against the bathroom stall door and she's unzipping my pants. I moan slightly as she runs her tongue over me and my eyes flutter closed as she takes me in her mouth.  
  
Closing my eyes was a bad idea. Instead of focusing on the pleasure I should be feeling, I'm seeing Draco's face, his eyes angry and accusatory, like the night before he moved out. I try to focus on something else, the girl I'm with or some guy from a couple of nights ago, but I keep seeing Draco's cold grey eyes, his disapproving stare. Fuck. The girl notices something is wrong and seems to double her efforts, humming lightly as she sucks and licks.  
  
I glance down at the girl, about to tell her that I'm sorry, and I must have had a bit too much to drink, but all I see is blond hair and for an moment I can almost imagine that it's someone else's head down there. Before I know it, I'm overcome with sensations, picturing Draco's eyes again, but this time they're full of passion and lust, and my body is tensing and I'm babbling incoherently and I'm pretty sure that was Draco's name that just spilled past my lips, and I hope like hell she didn't notice, and then I'm weak, shaking, as the aftereffects of a mind-blowing orgasm begin to set in, and I have to use the door of the bathroom stall to hold me up. She's looking at me with a self-satisfied smile, and even though they're brown eyes and not grey, I quickly zip my fly, taking her by the hand and leading her back into the bar.  
  
"If it's alright with you, I think I'm taking you home with me tonight."  
  
Her only response is a giggle and I take that as a 'yes'.  
  
I grope around the nightstand for the lamp switch, and accidentally knock the lamp over. I hear the bulb pop. Great. This is going to be one of those days. I reach into the drawer and pull out my wand, whispering Lumos, and my head feels like it's going to explode from the sudden invasion of light. Finding it peculiar that my wallet's lying open on the nightstand, I quickly look through it and find it empty. She fucking stole my money. Great. That's bloody fantastic. Slumping back onto the bed, I extinguish the light from my wand.  
  
This is going to be one of those days. 


	4. Chapter Three

Time Cannot Erase Chapter 3: by Karen Ilus  
  
(Draco's POV)  
  
Typically the weekend begins with empty streets and late mornings. The small city relaxes, letting go of the workweek stresses. Weekend sounds gradually replace the sleepy silence. Music from the upstairs neighbour makes its way down to my flat. A knot forms in my throat because it's like the music he used to listen to. Loud and jarring, more noise than rhythm. "It's punk rock," he would say with a roll of his eyes and a grin. "And, really, it's sad how you don't appreciate good music."   
  
I roll over onto my back and think. Loud music that lingers in your ear and thrums in your blood. It was like an extension of Harry himself.   
  
Whenever Harry was around I was subjected to it. During brief respites from the war I'd return to the shoddy rooms we called home and listen for his music. My heart would leap when I heard it coming from our floor because it meant that Harry was there to welcome me. Sometimes we even had a full weekend. Those were rare and treasured because that was as close as we could get to the feeling we had in our last years at Hogwarts.   
  
Relaxed, teasing, and together.   
  
Those weekends meant velvety warmth. I'd sleep until late, spooned or spooning his familiar body. Sometimes, we would wake up early and remain buried under tangled blankets, sharing our thoughts, trading humourous insults and rediscovering our hopes.   
  
We'd have long conversations over inconsequential things but more often than not we'd lay in silence, both lost in thought. Smiles given then were raw, often laced with sadness or fear or longing. In each other's arms we found solace and our fears and our despairs were put to rest if only for a little while.   
  
Everything was easier then. Now each breath takes conscious effort.   
  
The smells and sounds from the past are here in the present. They surround me, paralyze me with their false promises of home comforts, and leave me lonelier than I was before.   
  
Bile rises in the back of my throat and I force it down as I get out of bed and concentrate on routine. Enter bathroom, let the tap run, return to the bedroom and make the bed, then go back and shower. I try not to brood but under the water's spray, when I close my eyes; I see what I usually see. Endless green.   
  
Every single fucking day of my life, I miss him.   
  
That green used to welcome me. Welcomed me with affection, with smiles, with anger, with understanding.   
  
Now all it does is haunt me, and accuse me, and hurt me the way the sharp blade of a knife hurts when cutting methodically through thin layers of sensitive skin.   
  
I try to block out the memory of those eyes and that face like I did back when it mattered. Those war days spent in seclusion were as long as they were lonely. Utter boredom interspersed by sheer terror. Each day I fulfilled duties that I took upon myself and not because I gave a damn about Muggles or the welfare of the Wizarding World but because it affected Harry and all I wanted was Harry. But when it was too much, I shut my eyes and blocked everything out. Discarded him and everything so I wouldn't blow apart at the seams.   
  
I thought that if I managed to survive, sane and intact, I could ask for forgiveness, that I was doing it for him, that I'd make it up to him tenfold. Then we'd resume what we had. But when I looked up, Harry hated me for what I did. After that, he fucked dozens of nameless girls and boys and threw everyone in my face.   
  
I hate him.   
  
Mistakes were made and we live with the consequences. I fought on because I had nothing else. Then, nightmares became reality and I ran from the Wizarding World. Now, I live as a shadow. I thrive on meaningless routine. Get out of the shower, make breakfast because it's Saturday, sort my clothes because it's laundry day and most difficult of all...keep breathing in... and keep breathing out.   
  
I put on my Muggle clothes, head out the door with my bag of laundry. I continue to play pretend. 


End file.
